


Many Waters

by hanap



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), the holy water fic no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24908404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: The year is 1862, and Aziraphale is feeding the ducks at the pond, Crowley standing stiffly next to him. He assumes Crowley must need his help with a temptation, but Crowley abruptly asks him for something that he has never asked for before – a favour.[Or: the angst-ridden holy water fic no one asked for.]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 94





	Many Waters

**Author's Note:**

> "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it..." (Song of Solomon 8:7, KJV)

The year is 1862, and Aziraphale is feeding the ducks at the pond, Crowley standing stiffly next to him. He assumes Crowley must need his help with a temptation, but Crowley abruptly asks him for something that he has never asked for before – a favour.

The terms of the Arrangement don’t include favours. Blessings and temptations were exchanged, and that was all. Whatever help he extended to Crowley would always be returned. But a favour meant that Crowley was asking for something that he knew he would be unable to repay.

Aziraphale can feel the nerves stirring in his stomach as Crowley hands him a tiny folded note. Crowley doesn’t even look at him when he does it – he starts babbling about ducks instead. What in Heaven was so secret that Crowley couldn’t even bring himself to say it out loud?

He opens the note, and his blood turns to ice in his veins in shock. There are only two words written on it in Crowley’s spiky handwriting.

_Holy water._

For a moment, Aziraphale’s words leave him, and his mind is full of static. He can hear his own pulse rushing through his ears. He looks at Crowley in disbelief, but Crowley refuses to meet his gaze.

“Out of the question. It would destroy you. I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley.” 

He is beyond dismayed. Even Crowley’s promise that the holy water is only for insurance doesn’t satisfy him. Insurance for what, exactly? He’s angry now, and lashing out. He can’t believe Crowley would ask him for this. He wants Crowley to know just how much he’s hurt him. Before he knows it, a horrible word has slipped from his lips. _Fraternising._ One word follows another, each of them harsh and grating. Aziraphale storms off, bewildered and furious, leaving Crowley behind.

* * *

The year is 1941, and Crowley is steeling himself at the doorway of the church. He’s come to spare Aziraphale the embarrassment of having to file the necessary paperwork for a new corporation. He does this by scorching his own feet on consecrated ground, but if he grits his teeth and steps lightly, it’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t burn as much as it does.

Even through the agony, he notices a font full of holy water behind the half-witted Nazi spies. It would be so easy to take some now – there are no guards here. This is probably his best shot at personally getting his hands on the holy water he desperately wants, but he tears his eyes away from it. He needs to keep Aziraphale safe. Everything else is secondary.

Crowley uses the last of his concentration to protect the carpetbag of books from the bomb. There is a split second before the bomb hits the church roof where he panics at the possibility that Aziraphale might decide not to shield him with a miracle. Time slows suddenly and fear clutches him by the throat. He closes his eyes and braces himself for the excruciating pain when his corporation is ripped apart by the explosion. He’s been through this before. It will only be an instant.

The heat of the detonation washes over him, and there is a strange ringing in his ears. When he opens his eyes, his sunglasses are covered in soot and dust. He takes them off and wipes them, his hands trembling slightly with relief.

Crowley offers Aziraphale a lift home afterwards and is surprised when he accepts without argument. Inwardly, Crowley is proud of how casually he was able to ask. Somehow, he manages the drive back to the bookshop despite his scorched feet. Aziraphale has a wide-eyed look on his face when he says goodbye to Crowley, which he chalks up to shock. It had been quite an evening, after all.

The euphoria of his success is enough to tide him through the burning pain of getting out of the car and opening the Bentley door for Aziraphale. He even returns to take the eagle statue from the ruins of the bombed-out church. A souvenir. Hell knows he’s got so little to hang on to.

* * *

The year is 1967, and Aziraphale doesn’t know how he’s going to approach Crowley, who is having some sort of absurd meeting with a group of humans to rob a church. His chest squeezes tightly at the thought of it. He knows even a drop of holy water would destroy Crowley, but of course the humans wouldn’t know that. What if they were careless? He imagines one of them scooping holy water into a container and thoughtlessly handing it to Crowley with the lid still damp, and shudders with the horror of it. He decides to simply manifest in the Bentley.

Aziraphale can’t help himself. He needs to say it again.

“Crowley, it’s too dangerous. Holy water won’t just kill your body, it will destroy you completely.”

He hasn’t changed his mind, but the thought of losing Crowley is intolerable. He blesses the water himself. _Sed libera nos a malo. Please, keep him safe_. He’s never prayed so hard in his life. He screws the thermos closed tightly, wipes it twice, thrice, until it’s thoroughly dry. It’s a last-minute decision to miracle his favourite tartan pattern onto it.

They have always been in danger of being discovered all these years, but if anyone finds Crowley with holy water, it would be damning proof of this – there are no words for what they are to one another, but the truth of it has been hovering silently between them for nearly six thousand years.

If he’s giving Crowley something that could spell out life or death, he wants Crowley to have this. A concrete reminder of his trust in Crowley. He trusts that Crowley will keep this secret safe. He trusts that Crowley will use this only as insurance, and never for anything else. God forbid he uses it for anything else. _Don’t leave me, Crowley._ His heart clenches painfully. He reminds himself this is to protect Crowley from his own idiotic plans. This is a last resort, nothing more, just in case Hell decides to betray Crowley. It doesn’t do much to soothe the aching rawness in Aziraphale’s chest.

Aziraphale’s hands grip the thermos tightly. He has never been so afraid, and he has to force himself to let go. Crowley takes the thermos from him, the warmth of his fingers brushing over Aziraphale’s, and it is like a promise, silently binding the two of them. Suddenly, Aziraphale can’t stand the thought of Crowley thanking him, not when it’s ripping him apart at the seams to give Crowley the one thing that would assure his destruction.

In the end, it is too much for Aziraphale to bear. He can’t sit in the Bentley any longer, the weight of their unspoken promises pressing down until he can barely breathe. _You go too fast for me, Crowley_. Aziraphale stands at the corner of the street, concealed from view in the crowd, watching Crowley gently running his hands over the holy water in disbelief. The neon lights catch on the glossy surface of the thermos cap as Crowley presses it to his lips for a brief moment. Carefully, he puts it on the passenger seat beside him and starts the engine. Aziraphale watches him drive away, and his heart is so full that it’s nearly breaking.

* * *

The year is 2019, and Crowley is standing alone in his flat, his throat burning. Maybe it had been a waste of time to visit the bookshop, but he had to try just one more time. But Aziraphale still refuses to understand, refuses to listen to him. Crowley grits his teeth and walks to the framed Da Vinci sketch on his wall. He presses a hidden button and it swings open, revealing an enormous safe. He turns the knob quickly, hearing the tumblers clicking with the combination. He pulls open the door of the safe, and he sees the tartan thermos again for the first time in fifty-two years.

Tangible proof that Aziraphale cares for him. It is the only thing that has sustained him for the past five decades liberally peppered with Aziraphale’s biting words. Foul fiend. Hereditary enemies. The words twist his stomach tightly. He forces himself to focus.

The tartan pattern is so achingly familiar that the reminder is almost painful. _Aziraphale cares for him_. It helps him pull himself together, enough to pour the holy water into a bucket and set it above the door carefully, even while the doorbell screams and Hastur and Ligur’s footsteps echo in the hallway. He settles himself into his throne, each heartbeat of his corporation pounding out the rhythm of what might be the last seconds of his existence, trusting that Aziraphale’s only gift would be enough to get him through the next few hours alive.

**Author's Note:**

> My brain has been a mission to take every single Good Omens scene there is and make it as angsty as it can manage, and honestly, I can't bring myself to object. 
> 
> The prayer Aziraphale uses to bless the holy water is the Lord's Prayer in Latin, and means "deliver us from evil."
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


End file.
